Read Online St. Patrick's Day Murder by Leslie Meier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leslie Meier
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Maine, Women Detectives, Stone; Lucy (Fictitious Character), Irish Americans, Saint Patrick's Day
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his head. “I haven’t got it, so I can’t give it to you, can I?”
“Oh, it’s here all right,” said Dave, marching around the bar and yanking open a drawer. “The old miser stashed everything away.” He was working his way along the bar, pulling open drawers and dumping their contents on the floor. Coins and bottle caps were rolling every which way; bits of paper and string and plastic bags all came tumbling out.
“That’s enough, now,” said Dylan. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
“Oh, it isn’t?” said Dave, whirling around. He lifted his arm and socked Dylan right on the jaw, making a sickening smacking noise as his fist connected with Dylan’s face.
From the sound, Lucy expected Dylan to crumple to the floor, but he remained on his feet. He gave his head a quick shake, worked his jaw from side to side, and then, taking Dave unawares, caught him with a left hook. Dave responded by trying to wrap his hands around Dylan’s neck, a move that Dylan blocked by wrapping his arms around Dave and pinning his arms to his sides. The two men staggered around the room like exhausted boxers, smashing into chairs and tables and scattering the assembled mourners, most of whom were watching the fight avidly, including the ladies with rosaries. The Bilge regulars were more vocal, delivering cheers when a punch connected and jeering at the misses. It wasn’t until the combatants threatened to tumble into the refreshments that Father Ed decided it was time to intervene.
“Break it up,” he said, grabbing each man by the shoulder and pulling them apart. “If you’ve got to have a fight, take it outside, but don’t be knocking over the Jameson whiskey. Don’t you know it’s sacrilege?”
“Right, Father, right,” panted Dylan. “I shouldn’t be fighting at my own brother’s wake.”
“And you,” said Father Ed, pointing a finger at Dave. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Now get yourself out of here, and I expect to see you at confession tonight and at mass bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Dave hung his head. “Yes, Father.”
“Now be off with you,” said Father Ed, shooing Dave out the door. When it closed behind him, Father Ed turned to the group. “It wouldn’t be a real Irish wake without a bit of a dustup, now would it?” he asked, and a number of people chuckled in agreement and began setting the room to rights. Frank produced a fiddle and began tuning it, soon producing a lively jig.
When he’d finished, Moira asked him to play “Danny Boy” for her, and she sang so beautifully that a couple of the old ladies had to dry their eyes. Other songs followed, and soon everybody was joining in, singing old tunes their mothers and aunts and fathers and uncles had sung to them. Lucy had never seen anything like it. This wasn’t like the formal recitals she was used to: it was simply a group of people joining together to sing the songs they loved. She recognized some of them, she even knew the words to a few, but for the most part, she just sat and listened until she realized it was getting late and she had to get home to make dinner. She dragged herself away, straining to hear the last bits of music as she crossed the parking lot to her car.
Chapter Six
“I hear that wake was something else,” declared Phyllis when Lucy arrived at work on Monday morning. “Elfrida says there was a real hootenanny with fiddle music and singing.”
“Was she there? I didn’t see her,” said Lucy.
“Was she there? Are you kidding?” snorted Phyllis. “That one wouldn’t pass up a free meal.”
“There was plenty of food. And drink, too.”
“Well, one thing I will say for Elfrida,” said Phyllis, smoothing her sweater—a black cardigan trimmed with a tasteful scattering of jet beads—over her still substantial but somewhat deflated bosom, “she’s a teetotaler. Won’t touch a drop of alcohol. Not since her first husband died in that crash. Drunk as a
“Oh, it’s here all right,” said Dave, marching around the bar and yanking open a drawer. “The old miser stashed everything away.” He was working his way along the bar, pulling open drawers and dumping their contents on the floor. Coins and bottle caps were rolling every which way; bits of paper and string and plastic bags all came tumbling out.
“That’s enough, now,” said Dylan. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
“Oh, it isn’t?” said Dave, whirling around. He lifted his arm and socked Dylan right on the jaw, making a sickening smacking noise as his fist connected with Dylan’s face.
From the sound, Lucy expected Dylan to crumple to the floor, but he remained on his feet. He gave his head a quick shake, worked his jaw from side to side, and then, taking Dave unawares, caught him with a left hook. Dave responded by trying to wrap his hands around Dylan’s neck, a move that Dylan blocked by wrapping his arms around Dave and pinning his arms to his sides. The two men staggered around the room like exhausted boxers, smashing into chairs and tables and scattering the assembled mourners, most of whom were watching the fight avidly, including the ladies with rosaries. The Bilge regulars were more vocal, delivering cheers when a punch connected and jeering at the misses. It wasn’t until the combatants threatened to tumble into the refreshments that Father Ed decided it was time to intervene.
“Break it up,” he said, grabbing each man by the shoulder and pulling them apart. “If you’ve got to have a fight, take it outside, but don’t be knocking over the Jameson whiskey. Don’t you know it’s sacrilege?”
“Right, Father, right,” panted Dylan. “I shouldn’t be fighting at my own brother’s wake.”
“And you,” said Father Ed, pointing a finger at Dave. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Now get yourself out of here, and I expect to see you at confession tonight and at mass bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Dave hung his head. “Yes, Father.”
“Now be off with you,” said Father Ed, shooing Dave out the door. When it closed behind him, Father Ed turned to the group. “It wouldn’t be a real Irish wake without a bit of a dustup, now would it?” he asked, and a number of people chuckled in agreement and began setting the room to rights. Frank produced a fiddle and began tuning it, soon producing a lively jig.
When he’d finished, Moira asked him to play “Danny Boy” for her, and she sang so beautifully that a couple of the old ladies had to dry their eyes. Other songs followed, and soon everybody was joining in, singing old tunes their mothers and aunts and fathers and uncles had sung to them. Lucy had never seen anything like it. This wasn’t like the formal recitals she was used to: it was simply a group of people joining together to sing the songs they loved. She recognized some of them, she even knew the words to a few, but for the most part, she just sat and listened until she realized it was getting late and she had to get home to make dinner. She dragged herself away, straining to hear the last bits of music as she crossed the parking lot to her car.
Chapter Six
“I hear that wake was something else,” declared Phyllis when Lucy arrived at work on Monday morning. “Elfrida says there was a real hootenanny with fiddle music and singing.”
“Was she there? I didn’t see her,” said Lucy.
“Was she there? Are you kidding?” snorted Phyllis. “That one wouldn’t pass up a free meal.”
“There was plenty of food. And drink, too.”
“Well, one thing I will say for Elfrida,” said Phyllis, smoothing her sweater—a black cardigan trimmed with a tasteful scattering of jet beads—over her still substantial but somewhat deflated bosom, “she’s a teetotaler. Won’t touch a drop of alcohol. Not since her first husband died in that crash. Drunk as a
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